The Rattle-Rat ac-10

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  "So you really know nothing," Cardozo said.

  "Should I know more?" de Gier asked. "Grypstra won't allow me to do any work. I'm on paid leave, I understand. There's no need for me. Okay, maybe to do some shopping. I'll be going back in a minute. It's handy, Grypstra said, to have me around, perhaps. But there's nothing I'm supposed to do. That's why I observed all that exceptional beauty. If you're not involved in the activity, you sort of float, and while looking down much can be seen. You follow, Cardozo?"

  "No," Cardozo said. "Ary and Fritz, sir?"

  The commissaris collected his assembled facts. "Mere suspicions so far," the commissaris said, "but Jelle Troelstra is a reliable informant. Let's see what our electronic equipment, activated by the simple pressing of a few well-placed buttons, can do for us by way of confirmation." He picked up his phone. "Dear? Here are die names of two suspects, bank robbers. Please have them checked by the computer. The suspects are from the south. Will you do that for me? Please?"

  "The south?" Cardozo asked. "Exiled Frisians?"

  "The tip came from a Frisian," the commissaris said.

  The phone rang. "Down?" the commissaris asked. "Thank you, dear." He replaced the phone.

  "We do have some old files stored in the loft," Cardozo said, "due to be destroyed, but die shredder has been down. Shall I have a look?"

  When Cardozo returned he was carrying dented file drawers and folded cards. He also produced some photos. "This is Ary, this is Fritz, both of them known to be violent and armed, but recently freed after serving long stretches."

  They read the cards, de Gier and Cardozo standing at either side of the commissaris. "Bad boys," de Gier said, "but what are they to us? They'll be operating well beyond our limits. Douwe is fine; his corpse got into our hands here, and there's a hot trail to be followed. Ary and Fritz drank Frisian jenever at chez Troelstra. Their thoughts were bad, but we can't catch their thoughts."

  "I'll have to pass it on," the commissaris said. "Pity. Why don't they commit their crimes in Amsterdam, like everybody else?"

  "At a cattle market," de Gier said. "Just imagine." He read a little more. "Armed robbers." He shrugged. "Can't even catch them if they operated here. The new instructions state that in the case of armed robbery, an Arrest Team has to be alerted. The team will rush in with machine guns, and use sharpshooters peering through telescopes placed on cranes. They'll rumble about in armored vehicles. They'll be dressed in bulletproof vests. Their movements will be controlled from a mobile command post. Strategy. Tactics."

  "Dear?" the commissaris asked through his phone. "Chief Constable Lasius of Burmania, Municipal Police, Leeuwar-den. Please?"

  "In the old days," the commissaris said, "we'd just follow a robber. We'd tap him on the shoulder. We'd address him in a polite way. Then we'd take him along."

  "Was it really like that?" Cardozo asked. "But the robber would be carrying a pistol, surely. We can't do anything if we don't outnumber him twenty to one. With an Uzi submachine gun. Or an HK-33 SG/L rifle with infrared light. Or an MP-5 automatic pistol with shortened barrel. Or a bat-ttecar-type Shorland, an armored UR-416, or at least the modern Sankey minitank. Scout cars placed around the corner, ready to start, all weaponry aimed, backed up by squads of the Military Police, special lads, Red Beret training, pushed slowly forward and backed up again by a SWAT team of the State Police. Sharpshooters on all rooftops."

  The commissaris answered his phone. "Can't be reached? Get me the State Police, please. The commander, if possible. Yes, Leeuwarden again, I imagine that their headquarters will be in the capital too. If you please, my dear."

  "You can't remember that far back, Cardozo," the commissaris said, "but in the past we were quite peaceful. The idea was not to disturb the peace even further. When we made an arrest, we never employed more than a few police; we believed in small numbers."

  "Colonel Kopinie is out of his office?" the commissaris asked. "Do try the Military Police there, dear. If you please."

  "I could perhaps take a look," de Gier said. "A cattle market is open to the public. You think that Ary and Fritz will case the location soon? Cattle markets are on Friday, right? So they'll hit the dealers the Friday after. I might be there, an interested spectator. In Friesland I can be a civilian again."

  "Your police card is nationally valid," Cardozo said.

  "Sure," de Gier said, "but you haven't been there yet. Friesland is so otherwise.''''

  "You can grab anyone when you see a crime being committed," Cardozo said. "Just suppose that you happened to be strolling about in the market and Ary and Fritz robbed the dealers and I happened to be there too because, say, I was staying with you. You do have a house out there, there'll be a spare room."

  "Not at all," de Gier said. "Grijpstra is the only one who'll be working. He doesn't need the disturbance that you'll bring along. Do something here, Simon, and don't get in the adjutant's way out there. If he sees you around, you'll be in real trouble."

  Cardozo coughed and sneezed.

  "No one there?" the commissaris asked his phone. "The Military Police commander is Major Singelsma? They'll all phone me back? Thank you, my dear."

  "Now what's this with the sheep?" the commissaris asked. "Douwe dealt in sheep. Where did he sell them? Was he exporting them to Amsterdam?"

  "You'd have to ask Grijpstra, sir." De Gier wrote down a number and handed it to the commissaris.

  The number didn't answer. "I'm asking you now," the commissaris said to de Gier.

  "I'm not in on this," de Gier said.

  "Rinus," the commissaris said.

  "Are you asking me in my function as an outside observer? Yes," de Gier said, "that'll be different, then. Grijpstra took care of the inquiry, but I was with him a lot and I happened to hear this and that. Dealing in sheep appears to be an unregistered and therefore tax-free and therefore illegal commerce. As all sheep look alike, their descriptions do not fit into the memory of a computer."

  "Beg pardon," the commissaris said from behind his hand. "Had to laugh. Computer. Ha ha. Carry on, de Gier."

  "Cows fit into a computer's memory because their spots are different. Sheep have no spots. Births of lambs are not registered. The nonexistent lamb turns into a nonexistent sheep and is sold and nobody knows anything. No sales tax, no income tax, nothing.

  "Sheep are visible," Cardozo said.

  "You register a few," de Gier said, "but they run about all the time. The Dingjum corporal explained the procedure to me. The average sheep has three lambs, but not in Fries-land. Frisian lambs drown in moats a lot, or the fierce neighbor dogs maul them to death, or they die young of tuberculosis. You have a hundred lambs and you register maybe nine. The other ninety-one are hidden during checks."

  "So Scherjoen bought the ninety-one sheep and sold them to the Middle East?"

  "For cash," de Gier said. "Cash isn't registered either."

  Cardozo blew the remnants of his influenza into his handkerchief and smiled at the sergeant. 'That's where I caught on. There are ships moored in the Inner Harbor here. Scher-joen pushed a thousand unregistered sheep onto a ship. What's the price of a sheep?"

  "Three hundred guilders."*

  That's a three-hundred thousand-guilder load. To be paid for in cash. Now the Moroccan, a buyer, doesn't pay. There are no invoices, no bills of lading, no proof of any sort. The Moroccan says he has paid already. Scherjoen loses his temper. The Moroccan loses his temper too. He whips out a gun. Bang. No more Scherjoen asking for money. The Moroccan, a dangerous Arabian freedom fighter, isn't satisfied yet and burns Scherjoen's corpse. Oh, they're wicked in the Middle East. Beirut!" *One guilder is equal to about thirty cents in U.S. currency.

  The phone rang. "For you," the commissaris said.

  "Jane?" de Gier asked. "The Volkswagen is repaired? You arranged it not for me, but because you serve the Service? You're such a wonderful woman, Jane. No? Well, I think you are." He observed the buzzing phone. He put it down.

  "Something is bothering
Jane," Cardozo said. "She's making everybody nervous. Some dissatisfied vibration oozes out of her and puts the colleagues on edge. Do you have plans with her or don't you?"

  "I never have any plans," de Gier said. "Things just happen to me in spite of my defenses, or not, as in the case of Jane."

  "I'll be looking for a Moroccan sheik," Cardozo said. "And once I have a photograph of Scherjoen, I could show it around along Prince Henry Quay. The woman in the health-food store recognized him as some sort of farmer, and others must have seen him too."

  "You do that," de Gier said. "That'll keep you out of trouble."

  "Will you get me a photo?" Cardozo asked. "Of Douwe? Please?"

  "Ah," the commissaris said, "I keep forgetting to tell you, Sergeant. Tell Grypstra that the chief constable here gave permission for you two to operate in Friesland, but you can't declare costs. The administration is tightening up. Since you have to eat anyway, you pay for your own meals, and any extras are at your own expense too."

  "The photo," Cardozo said.

  "Theoretically you couldn't even take the Volkswagen," the commissaris said, "but the vehicle was written off a long time ago and is no longer recognized by the administration, so take it along."

  "That's understood, sir."

  "I won't be declaring costs, either," the commissaris said. "I haven't declared anything for a while. Officers of my rank are considered to be a useless weight these days."

  "But you will be around?"

  "Of course," the commissaris said. "As a Frisian, I'm supporting the cause. I was born in Joure. A good opportunity to return to the land of my birth. What matters these days is to be able to combine circumstances in a propitious manner. I'm supposed to be home at night, so I can drive up and down the dike."

  "Living well is the best revenge," de Gier said.

  "You want to get even?"

  "Me?" de Gier asked.

  "You're not in this," Cardozo interrupted. "I am. I'll be doing something. I'll be doing something now. Don't forget the photo."

  "I'll be going now," de Gier said.

  "I'll be going later," the commissaris said, "once the Frisian authorities have contacted this office."

  "A truly splendid country, sir," de Gier said. "I kept meeting you out there. You have something that I thought to be quite rare, but in your country it is offered from all sides."

  "What something, Sergeant?"

  "It's all so oars" de Gier said. "Beg pardon, that's Frisian, sir. So otherwise, I meant to say. How shall I express that exotic feeling?"

  The commissaris pointed at the books under de Gier's arm. "You really managed to make sense of Frisian literature?"

  "I did."

  "Read me a little."

  De Gier opened the novel and cleared his throat. "Are you ready?"

  "Go ahead."

  "Female thought, sir, thought by a certain Martha."

  "Go ahead, Sergeant."

  De Gier read in Frisian. "'I have to go to the bathroom now/"

  "Translate."

  De Gier translated.

  "A deep thought," the commissaris said. "And well expressed. Very different. Exceptional, are they?"

  De Gier looked for a better quote.

  "Never mind," the commissaris said. "Go join Grijpstra, he'll be needing the car. I'm quite sure he won't be needing you"

  \\ 7 /////

  De Gier rang the doorbell. A man opened the door. He wore a fisherman's jersey that followed his ample belly along a wide curve, and he had tied a bright red bandanna around his neck. A flat fanner's cap sat on his head.

  "Is it you?" de Gier asked.

  "It is," said Grijpstra. "How do you like me in Frisian?"

  "Yes," de Gier said. "Are you living here?"

  "You are too," Grijpstra said, "for you will be staying with me. Do try to be tidy, for it's most kind of Adjutant Oppenhuyzen to let us live here for free. He forgot Eddy. Mrs. Oppenhuyzen just telephoned about Eddy."

  De Gier walked into a long corridor. "How police-like to forget your own son. Confirms my theory. Police-people do not function well within normal society. They therefore allow themselves to be cast out. Once they're cast out, they turn on society. The police are criminal in essence."

  "Not his son," Grypstra said. "His rat. The rat lives upstairs, I haven't seen him yet. Let's go look together. You'll have to take care of Eddy."

  "A pet rat?" de Gier asked. "My hypothesis stands confirmed. Only the perverted will pet a rat. Cast out because of perversion, the policeman attacks the society in which he does not fit."

  "Don't carry on so," Grijpstra said, dragging his feet on the staircase. "The adjutant was ill. Something wrong with his face. He kept grabbing at his cheeks. His wife was all worried. They suddenly had to move to their summer house, and they had to get everything together in a rush; surely the circumstances permitted forgetting a mere rat."

  De Gier wandered in and out of rooms. 'Too many roses on the wallpaper, and I don't care for the furniture either. Bought at sales throughout the centuries. Can we get rid of it? Stack it in the garage? Okay if I whitewash the walls? This jumble of colors should be an insult to your painter's perception. Where is this rat?"

  "Here," Grijpstra said. "In the terrarium. By the way, he lives on a diet of Frisian cheese. Adjutant Oppenhuyzen has already phoned me twice. He left a pound of cheese. You think he got away?"

  De Gier studied more wallpaper.

  "In the sawdust?" Grijpstra asked, lifting the glass top of the terrarium and digging about with his finger. "Hey!" He jumped back.

  A white pointed snout protruded from the sawdust. Red eyes peered out shyly. Long yellow protruding teeth extended beyond a receding bald chin. Ragged mustache hairs trembled. "And we've got to hold that?" Grypstra asked nervously.

  "Hi, Eddy," de Gier said.

  "Got to hold him once in a while. Mrs. Oppenhuyzen's instructions. Put the top down." Grijpstra's voice broke into a squeak.

  The rat rattled.

  De Gier lifted Eddy from the terrarium, turned him over, and held his ear to Eddy's belly. "He must be hungry."

  "Let go of that beast," Grypstra said. "I don't want to engage in a relationship with a rattle-rat. I'll make a phone call. The Oppenhuyzens are in Engwierum. Has to be around here somewhere. Drop the rat and cover the terrarium. They'll have to pick him up."

  "It's hunger that makes him rattle. Here, listen for yourself." De Gier held Eddy close to Grijpstra's ear. Grijpstra backed up against the wall. "Nice little animal," de Gier said, and buried his nose in Eddy's fur. "You come along with your Uncle Rinus."

  Eddy hung over de Gier's flat hand. De Gier carried him downstairs, and together they looked into the refrigerator. Eddy waited on the table while de Gier sliced the cheese. "Here you are." Eddy ate. "You see?" de Gier asked. "Ravenous, the poor little sucker."

  "You take care of the beast," Grijpstra said. "And of the plants. I've got a list here. All plants are numbered, and each plant has different watering times. The required quantities are listed in cubic centimeters, right here. You have to pour carefully, not slosh the water into the pots; there's a note to that effect. The plants marked with an A are fed crystals from this can, and the?'s are fed from the can over there."

  "What?" de Gier asked.

  "And here are cleaning instructions," Grijpstra said. "What cleaning product does what, and where the containers can be found. And here's some paper for the administration of our expenses. Make careful notes, for we can claim them afterward."

  "We can't claim anything," de Gier said, "compliments of the commissaris. New regulations for out-of-town police officers on the job. It doesn't matter where we operate. No declarations."

  "What?" Grijpstra asked.

  De Gier stroked the rat.

  "Leave the varmint alone," Grypstra said. "Rats are loaded with disease. Ah, that's another thing, we've got to wash him too."

  "Consider it done." De Gier turned on a faucet. The rat rattled excitedly. "You like th
at, do you?" De Gier mixed soap suds with hot water in a bowl. "Can you get in by yourself?" Eddy clambered into his bath. His head hung over the edge while de Gier kneaded the wet little body gently. The rat's rattle became louder.

  "Now what?" Grijpstra asked. "He just ate a quarterpound of cheese. Hungry again?"

  "Limited program," de Gier said. "Probably expressing positive emotion now. Rats can't talk, you know." De Gier dried Eddy with a dishcloth and took him to the living room, where he jumped on the couch.

  "Are you going to cook now?" Grijpstra asked. "And do some shopping first?"

  "Will you be doing something too?"

  Grijpstra prepared for a nap on the couch, after shooing Eddy away. The rat climbed a chair, wrapped his naked tail around his bare feet, and sighed contentedly. The sigh contained a vague shadow of a rattle.

  "Rats are supposed to squeak," Grijpstra said.

  "Maybe a cold?" de Gier asked. "Cardozo is suffering too. He found Scherjoen's car, a Citroen like the commissaris's, and there was an old-model Mauser in the door pocket, loaded but clean."

  Grijpstra opened an eye. "Douwe didn't feel safe?"

  "And drove an expensive car," de Gier said. "My conclusions are as limited as yours."

  "Let's hear more."

  "The car was parked halfway on the pavement. Locked."

  "I often park halfway on the pavement," Grypstra said.

  "When you're in a hurry?"

  "Nah," Grijpstra said. "When I feel like it. Lazy. Don't feel like parking the vehicle properly between others. Why bother? Nobody bothers in Amsterdam."

  De Gier tickled Eddy's head.

  "Do hurry up," Grijpstra said. "The stores are about to close."

  De Gier came back with canned pea soup, bread, and butter.